Chapter 33
Mary heard the keening wail of the Duke of Kilmorgan from the chamber she shared with Malcolm. Shouts and cries followed, and Mary hurried to the window, wrenched it open, and looked down into the courtyard. Below, the duke was trying to yank Angus’s limp body from the horse, but Duncan had tied it fast so Angus wouldn’t fall.
Duncan swung down from his mount, his knife out, ready to cut the ropes. The duke turned on him, grabbing Duncan so swiftly that the knife sliced a thin cut across the duke’s face before Duncan could stop it.
The duke didn’t notice. “Is this what ye’ve done t’ me?” he roared. “Taken my best son from me and killed him?” He drew back his fist to strike Duncan a furious blow.
Battle-hardened Duncan caught his fist and twisted it away. “I tried to stop it,” Duncan said. “I tried. I couldn’t.”
“Ye could have stopped it by keeping him from coming with ye! Ye bloody bastard, ye’ve killed my son!”
Mary left the window and hurried down the stairs. She nearly ran into Alec on the next landing, he white-faced, his eyes fixed in shock. Mary steadied Alec as he swayed, and they went down the rest of the stairs together.
“Angus.” Alec’s voice broke as he ran out into the courtyard. Mary was still beside him as he approached the horse to stare at the gray, still face of his twin. Alec rested his closed fists on the horse’s neck, and bowed his head.
Duncan wrested himself free of the duke. “Where’s Malcolm?” he demanded of Mary.
Mary shook her head, her heart squeezing with dismay and grief. “Not here. He’s visiting the farms. He’ll be on the west end of them by now.”
Duncan pointed a blunt finger at Ewan. “Lad—run out there and send him back. We need to bury Angus right away.”
The duke shouted and went after Duncan, both fists raised. While Duncan struggled with him, Alec, his amber eyes red-rimmed, managed to loosen the ropes around Angus and catch his brother in his arms.
Life these days was such that Mary had already seen death several times in her young existence. By the amount of gray in Angus’s face, she knew that Duncan was right—Angus should be interred quickly.
The duke swung from Duncan and pulled Angus away from Alec. “No! Ye leave him be!” He cradled Angus in his arms, as gently as he would a baby, and strode swiftly away from them all into the house.
Duncan went after him. “Father!”
The duke swarmed up the stairs, strode into his bedchamber, and kicked the door closed. Duncan, a few steps behind him, grabbed for the handle, but the duke had already turned the key in the lock.
Duncan pounded both fists on the door. “Father!”
Mary reached the chamber in time to hear the duke shout through the heavy paneling. “Stay away from my boy!”
Duncan drew back, ready to kick the door in, but Mary caught his arm. “No. Give him some time. He needs to grieve.”
Duncan glared down at Mary, eyes glittering. He was the brother Mary least understood. Duncan was a hard man, absolute in his convictions, ready to beat down anyone who stood in his way. He’d make a formidable enemy, but he also made a difficult friend.
Duncan’s eyes didn’t soften, but he gave Mary a conceding nod. He left her and strode to the stairs. Alec, coming up, turned and went down with him, and after a moment, Mary followed.
“What the devil happened?” Alec was demanding of Duncan. “What battle?”
Duncan shook his head. “No battle.” He unwound his plaid from his shoulders, revealing his stained coat and linen shirt. “We were chasing Loudon’s troops after they fled into the western Highlands. Bloody man kept running.”
Once he reached the bottom of the stairs, Duncan lumbered into the dining room, tossed his plaids over a chair, and went to a whisky decanter, pouring himself a measure. His hands shook as he lifted the glass to his lips. The man was next to exhaustion, Mary saw, his pinched cheekbones and loose hang of his coat telling Mary he hadn’t eaten or drunk much lately.
Duncan swayed, and Mary pulled a chair out a little way from the table for him. She didn’t suggest he sit, but she took the armless chair next to it. Duncan set his glass on the table and dropped into the chair as though it had been his own idea.
“We were ambushed by a British patrol,” Duncan told Alec, who stood at the foot of the table, arms folded. Duncan took a gulp of whisky. “We fought, evenly matched. Their backs were to the cliffs—we should have won. But we’re marching on empty stomachs, and that takes the vigor out of a man.” Another drink.
Alec didn’t sit down. His face, a near mirror of Angus’s, was flush with life; Angus’s, wan with death. “So what happened?” Alec asked. “Obviously you got away.”
“We finally started to drive them off, but we knew we had to flee into the hills,” Duncan went on. “A couple of infantrymen grabbed Angus and dragged him off his horse. I turned back, tried to reach him. Angus fought like the devil, but it was close fighting, dirks and knives. One of the soldiers stuck a pistol right against Angus’s chest. I couldn’t reach him in time.” Duncan faltered. His gaze fixed on the polished top of the table, his hand tightening around the glass until his knuckles whitened. “The man shot him dead, without mercy. Angus didn’t have a chance.”
Mary’s eyes burned with tears, but rage followed sorrow. “Why?” she cried. “They had no need to kill him. He could have been taken prisoner. A duke’s son would be worth a ransom.”
Duncan’s head came up. “Why? Because they’re be-damned English bastards, that’s why! They’re poised to kill us all. Maybe Angus struck lucky.”
“Shut it, Duncan,” Alec said fiercely.
“It’s true. We’re starving and cold—Cumberland’s men are well fed, well trained, and holed up warm in Aberdeen. We’re running around the Highlands scratching to survive.”
“Then leave it alone,” Alec snapped. “Come home. We need ye here.”
“Not until it’s done.” Duncan tossed back the rest of the whisky and wiped his mouth. “I’ll go see about the funeral. Angus’ll be put in the family tomb.”
He was as swift to act as all the Mackenzies. Duncan swung out of the room just as Mary heard Malcolm at the front door.
“Duncan, man,” Malcolm said in a hard voice. “Stop and tell me.”
Mary rushed out in time to see Duncan push past Malcolm without a word.
Mal saw Mary. “Ewan said Angus was dead,” Mal growled at her.
Alec, in the dining room doorway, nodded. “Dad has him.”
“For God’s sake,” Malcolm demanded, “one of ye tell me what the hell happened!”
Alec, his voice a monotone, repeated Duncan’s story. Malcolm stilled as he listened, his eyes losing any softness they’d ever had. His youth faded from him even as Mary watched.
“Dad has him upstairs now?” Malcolm asked when Alec finished. His voice was far too calm, making Mary uneasy.
“He’s locked the door,” Mary said. “I wouldn’t let Duncan force his way in, but I’m afraid . . . Mal, would you speak to him?”
Mal shook his head, a weary look settling on him. “I’m the last person he listens to.”
“You’re wrong about that.” Mary’s mouth was dry, her fingers cold, so cold. “Please, try.”
Malcolm shot her a skeptical glance but turned away and climbed the stairs, Mary coming close behind him.
Mal reached his father’s door and rapped on it. “Dad—it’s Mal. Let me in.”
“Please,” Mary added through the door.
They heard the crash of falling glass, then the duke’s voice. “Go the hell away!”
Malcolm knocked again. “I just want t’ see me brother.”
“No!” Something hard slammed against the door, which jumped on its hinges. “Ye stay away from him. Ye as good as killed him—he, who’s always been better than the lot of ye.”
Malcolm said sternly, “Dad, open the door.”
“Get away from here or I’ll flay the skin off ye!” The duke’s voice choked off, horrible coughing sobs replacing the words.
“Bloody hell,” Malcolm whispered.
He groped into his pockets and pulled out a few thin pieces of metal. Mary knew exactly what he did with those by now—there wasn’t a lock made that Malcolm couldn’t open. He’d never explained where he’d learned the skill and why, only said that it came in handy.
Mal dropped to his knees, carefully pushed the key out of the keyhole on the other side, and started scraping at the lock. He had it undone in a minute or two, then rose and reached for the door handle.
Mary stopped him. “Let me.”
Malcolm gave her a long look, then he seemed to understand, and gestured her to go ahead. Mary drew a breath, opened the door, and entered the duke’s bedchamber.
Malcolm closed the door behind her, remaining outside of it, shutting her in with the duke.
The Duke of Kilmorgan sprawled on the low couch Mary had caused to be brought here from the castle. She’d chosen to put it in the duke’s chamber because it fit his muscled bulk. He’d grumbled he didn’t need soft furniture, but the duke’s valet told Mary he napped upon it all the time. Now the duke sat forlornly on the edge of the couch, his head bowed over Angus across his lap.
Father and son. The duke rested his hand on Angus’s unmoving chest, his own body moving with sobs. The choked sound of the duke’s weeping was terrible.
Mary drew a breath. She knew she needed to help him, and Angus as well, but she hardly knew how to approach him. Her chest was tight, limbs cold, her heart beating too quickly. She moved softly toward them.
The duke heard her step and jerked his head up, ready with a snarl and a shout. Then he said, “Oh, it’s you,” and bent over Angus again.
Mary laid a hesitant hand on the duke’s large shoulder. She rarely touched the man, who’d made it clear he didn’t like sentimentality, but now he didn’t flinch from her comfort.
“Ye have keys to all our rooms, do ye?” the duke asked without looking up. “Bloody English busybody.”
Mary drew a shaky breath. “We need to lay Angus to rest,” she said gently. “Let him go with honor.”
The duke jerked from her touch. “Ye stay away from him.”
“Father-in-law . . .”
The duke glared up at Mary, his golden eyes bloodshot, his face mottled red and white. “He’s my boy, don’t ye understand, woman? He’s the only one who ever cared whether I lived or died. I won’t let them take him away from me!”
His raw grief sent a wave of both fear and compassion through her. The duke was a hard man, uncomfortable with deeper emotions. He swam in a sea of bewilderment but was too enraged to take the hand stretched out to keep him from drowning.
Mary gathered her skirts and sank to her knees beside him. Her fingertips rested on the sofa’s cushion near Angus’s limp body. “All your sons love you very much, sir.”
The duke had bowed over Angus again, but he shot her a sideways glance. “You’re a dreamer, lass. Ye can’t begin t’ understand the Mackenzies. My lads don’t know how t’ love anything but themselves.”
“You’re wrong.” A few months ago, Mary would never have dared to say such a thing to this daunting man, but she now drew the courage to speak. “Your sons are perfectly capable of loving. They wouldn’t be so gentle with me if they weren’t.”
“’Course they’re gentle with ye.” The duke’s voice had calmed the slightest bit. “You’re a woman.”
Mary bravely rested her hand on the duke’s large knee. His body tightened, but he watched her, eyes glittering behind the graying hair that straggled down his face. He wanted the lifeline, Mary realized. Wanted to cease feeling as he did. She only hoped she could give it to him.
“I’m wise enough to know men aren’t necessarily kind to women,” she said, keeping her voice quiet. “Quite the opposite, in fact. It is easy to be cruel to those weaker in body than you are. Your sons have compassion, and caring. Let them give it to you.”
The duke shook his head. “You’re wrong, lass. Only Angus ever took care of me. When I needed my sons, Angus was the only one who answered. He looked after me. Always did.”
“I know.” Mary made herself study Angus, lying so cold and still, his eyes closed, never to open again. “And now you need to look after him. He died fighting valiantly, Duncan said. Let him be honored for that.”
The duke drew Angus close, rocking him as he must have done when Angus had been a wee babe. This man had lived through so much—the loss of a wife he’d desperately loved, sons he’d grown estranged from, and now the destruction of his home and the death of the son he’d been closest to. He’d dealt with the horrors by defying them in his belligerent way, raging when the pain inside him became unbearable.
Mary, her heart full, gently squeezed his knee through the Mackenzie plaid that covered it. The duke grunted at the gesture, but when he looked up, his lined face wet, the terrible light had gone from his eyes.
“Ye have a way with ye, Mary.” He wiped his cheeks with the back of his hand. “Mal had better watch out for that.” The duke drew a long breath then let it out. “Let me sit vigil with him, child. Let me say good-bye tonight. Tomorrow, we’ll lay him with his ancestors.”
Mary climbed to her feet, her limbs aching. She put her hand on the duke’s shoulder, then leaned down and kissed the top of his head. “I’ll have your man send up something warm to eat.”
The duke nodded, his attention returning to Angus. Mary left him, slipping away through the door to leave them alone.
Mal waited just outside. As Mary emerged, he shut the door for her then pulled her into the circle of his arms. He held her, not speaking, his head bowed to her shoulder.
They were so fragile, Mary realized, these men. In spite of their physical strength, their bluster, the ear-splitting loudness of their voices, they were vulnerable. Broken if struck the wrong way. They needed someone to love them, to care for them, to keep them whole.
After a time, Mal led her to the staircase landing and the window there, Malcolm looking out at the rain that had begun.
“I heard what ye said to him,” he said quietly. “It was good of ye.”
Mary rubbed his broad shoulder. “Your father needs you. No matter how much he denies it.”
“Aye, I know.” Malcolm gazed out at the rain again, his hand curling at his side.
Mary recognized the gesture. He clenched his fingers in that way when he was about to go for his dirk, or his sword.
“You want to fight, don’t you?” she asked him.
Malcolm’s expression was bleak. “Aye.” He wouldn’t look at Mary. “There’ll have to be a stand, Will says, when Cumberland comes out of Aberdeen. I want to stand against him, to shove him away from Scotland.”
“Then he’ll come back,” Mary said, fear lacing her. “Even if you defeat him and send him running back to England, he’ll return, likely with more soldiers.”
“Then we’ll push him again. This is what Highlanders do—we fight to defend our homes against all comers. I’ve tried to keep us out of this mess, but both sides have dragged us straight into it.”
“And you want to avenge your brother.”
Mal nodded. “Aye, and my father. This has broken him. I want to make someone pay.”
“Then go.” Mary’s heart was heavy, but she understood Malcolm’s anger. She’d feel the same in defense of Audrey, Aunt Danae—Malcolm himself. “Go and do your worst. I’ll be here, waiting for you.” She lifted his clenched fist and pressed a kiss to it. “But you come back to me.”
A ghost of Mal’s grin broke through. “Aye, Mary. That I will. Nothing will ever keep me from you. Not Death himself. I promise ye that.”
They buried Angus in the morning, in the family’s tomb that had been cut directly into a hillside. It was an old place, with centuries of Mackenzies resting here. Angus was laid next to his mother and his brother Magnus. The stone above him was blank for the moment, but Mal had sent for stone cutters to come and chisel in his name. Everyone from Kilmorgan lands came to pay respect to the Mackenzie son, taken from them too soon.
The family ate a cheerless meal back at the house, in the darkened dining room. Mal picked at his food, his stomach roiling, his usually insatiable appetite gone. Duncan was ready to leave after they finished the meal. The duke said nothing, only nodded when Duncan declared he’d go.
“I’m going to murder Cumberland.” Alec’s voice rang through the room. Mal jumped, and Mary’s head came up. She’d been quiet all morning, standing back and letting the family grieve. “I’ll shoot him dead, then go off to France,” Alec said. “I lost my wife, and my brother. I’m done.”
Mal’s heart ached for him. Mal and Alec had always been close, but Mal had known that Alec had a special bond with Angus, no matter how much both twins had scoffed at the idea. A man couldn’t be born alongside another and not share that bond.
No one contradicted Alec. The duke only looked at him. Duncan grunted his agreement. “Aye, we’ll deal with Cumberland. When I catch him, I’ll save him for ye.”
Mal felt Mary’s eyes on him. She expected him to leap to his feet, offer to join Duncan when he rode away today, heading back to Inverness, where the Jacobites had holed up, waiting to fight.
Mal had no plans to go with Duncan. He saw no reason to kick his heels in Inverness—he and Alec would wait for Will’s news that Cumberland had poked his head out of Aberdeen. If Cumberland tarried too long, Mal would go to Aberdeen himself and chop that head off.
No, he needed to bide his time, to plan. Let Duncan ride off, vowing revenge. Mal approached problems in a different way.
After the meal and seeing Duncan off, Mal took Mary’s hand and led her to their bedchamber. Only with her could he release his grief, only in her arms could he find his comfort.
Weeks passed. Mal continued to restore his distillery, Mary to feather the nest of the cold stone house. The duke became quieter and more taciturn, but he didn’t snarl any longer when Mary suggested improvements to the rooms, including the duke’s. Mal’s father began to look upon her with fondness, Mal was glad to note, letting Mary gently chivvy him into going on with life, keeping up his strength.
Before Will—who’d gone off again after Alec’s funeral—could send any word about Cumberland, Duncan came barreling back home in the first week of April, announcing that gold from France and extra troops had landed in the north, only to be seized by Highlanders loyal to King George.
“We need that gold,” Duncan said. “Cromartie is leading the Mackenzie clan to get it. We need someone like you, Mal. Come with us. Please.”